Telling Lies to Alice (32 page)

It must be loud. Loud enough to wake me up, anyway. And Eustace. Mum’s never come in, though. Perhaps she doesn’t hear. I’m glad. I don’t want to have to explain. It’s a good job she’s here, though, because of the animals. I tried to get back to normal, but I couldn’t manage it. I wanted to—I’d get started on something, then I’d find myself doing something else when I hadn’t finished the first thing—just drifting, really. Hopeless.

I did talk to Mr. Anderson a bit, though. I was worried they’d charge me with killing Jeff or Lee because my fingerprints were on the gun, but when I told him he said that was why they’d done the tests on my hands, because they’d still have powder on if I’d fired the gun, even if I washed them afterwards, there’d be traces, and they’d be able to tell . . . I couldn’t bear that, if Fred thought I’d killed his son. He’s not been in touch—I’ve been telling myself it’s because the phone’s not repaired yet, but he could have come round, and he hasn’t. I tried to write him a letter, but I couldn’t concentrate. . . . I don’t know what to say. Lee’s dead, and he was only a child. He’d had no life at all. He didn’t do anything wrong, just tried to help me—if I hadn’t called out to him, if he’d just left the paper and gone, then he’d still be alive.

There was nothing in the paper about Kitty, that’s the stupid thing. Jack hadn’t even looked at it anyway—he can’t have done, because they found it when Fred moved the furniture away from the front door to let the police in. There was a note from Trudy saying
Get well soon
scribbled across the top. I know because the police asked me about it. I suppose they must have spoken to her as well, poor kid.

I keep going over it all in my head . . . what if, what if, what if . . . sometimes—usually at night—I start crying and I can’t stop, other times I just feel numb.

I went downstairs just now—Mum’s gone out to the shop—and got my tape recorder. It’s on the chair by the bed, all plugged in and ready. All I have to do is put the tape in and press the button, but . . .

Lenny wanted me to know. He wouldn’t have made it otherwise, would he?

If I listen to this tape, I know that’ll be it. I won’t be able to keep my Lenny—my memory—anymore. I didn’t believe Jack’s story about how Kitty died—a drunken accident—but the real thing might be worse. . . .

Lenny wanted me to know. He wanted it to be like this. Like that thing I read: You live your life forwards and understand it backwards, and that’s how it works. But—somehow, I don’t know how—I know I’ll survive. Maybe it does come down to love. It does for me, at any rate. After all, love is the only thing we’ve got. And hope, of course. Love and hope.

Lenny didn’t survive, and Jack didn’t, but I will. It might take a long time, but I will. I know that. But first, I have to do this.

I’m putting the tape into the machine—like
so
—and now I’ll turn it on. The wheels are turning. Faint hissing . . . background . . . that’s all I can hear. Still time to turn it off. Take it downstairs and burn it, like I did with the film. But as I put my hand out, I hear Lenny’s voice.
“Alice
. . .
”

Too late.

“Alice
. . .
I want to tell you
. . .
”
Lenny’s voice is loud, incoherent, sometimes urgent, rambling, tailing off, and sometimes he turns the tape off and puts it back on again halfway through a sentence.

“I did see Kitty—didn’t mean anything, it was Jack as well, just fooling around
. . .
I took her to the party, wanted to make you jealous
. . .
only reason
. . .
Kitty said she wanted to do it some more
. . .
said she’d bring some other girls
. . .
Told us to meet them at the lake, so we got my car and went down there
. . .
She was on her own, and that’s when she said
. . .
told us she’d got this film—of the three of us—and we had to pay her
. . .
We had no idea, neither of us
. . .
We’d just been larking around, chasing through the wood, and when she said it, I didn’t think she meant
. . .
I just thought it was funny, we’d been drinking and the idea of it just struck me as
. . .
I was sitting under a tree, laughing, and Jack caught her round the waist and she was struggling and he said ‘Get her legs,’ I still thought
. . .
just messing about—Jack was going to chuck her in the lake or something, so I got hold of her legs and we all sort of fell over and I was sitting on her, Jack was by her head, he started hitting her and she was yelling so I said something—I don’t know—’Steady on,’ or something like that, ‘You’ll hurt her and she won’t want to play anymore,’ but I was laughing so much I couldn’t catch my breath and Jack said, ‘She isn’t playing now.’ She was trying to get up but he wouldn’t let her, she said she’d go up to the house and tell Marcus and she got to the car—the driver’s seat—I was hanging on to her legs but she got in and it wouldn’t start and that was funny, too, women drivers
. . .
I was leaning on the car, I couldn’t stop laughing
. . .
Jack went round the other side and he was banging her head on the steering wheel and I said, ‘Don’t,’ because I didn’t want him to hurt her, then I was on the ground by the door stroking her legs and her head was jerking backwards and forwards—I asked him to stop, begged him
. . .
but she went all floppy and Jack said, ‘That’s it.’ I said, ‘What do you mean?’ and he said, ‘We’ve got to get rid of the car,’ because there was blood, blood on the steering wheel and all around
. . .
dashboard
. . .
and I said, ‘She’ll be all right,’ or something, and I went over to get her a drink but I must have fallen over because next thing I knew Jack had her bag out of the back with her clothes and he was saying, ‘It’s in here, the bitch, she’s got it in here,’ and he showed me the films—two of them—and he said, ‘We’ve got to do this,’ and I asked him why we can’t just take the films and he said, ‘They won’t be the only ones.’ I went to look through the window again and I could hear this funny noise, like a calf or
. . .
mooing
. . .
and I opened the door but Jack leant over me and took the handbrake off and said, ‘Help me push,’ and I said, ‘She’s alive,’ but he wouldn’t listen and he started pushing and the car was moving down the slope and bouncing and I could see her face at the window, up and down, and her hands against the glass—and I said, ‘She’s not dead
. . .
’ . . . told me not to be so fucking stupid, ‘Of course she’s dead,’ and I said, ‘No.’ Told me I was hallucinating but she was alive, I know she was . . . and just before it went down in the water, I could see her . . . Jack says I imagined it but I know . . . I get dreams—nightmares—her face behind the glass . . . unbearable . . . can’t pretend anymore—I thought . . . you were my future, but now I can’t . . . Jack says we mustn’t tell anyone, but . . . doesn’t matter now . . . only for Jack, if he . . . but I know you won’t . . . I had to tell you, Alice, so you know . . . better without me . . . We took her bag and dumped it, and Jack sent Val round to her flat to get the other tapes, but then I got a phone call asking where she was . . . a man, wanting money—he knew about the party, and when Kitty didn’t come back he must have put two and two together . . . threatening us . . . we’ve paid him, but he won’t leave us alone . . . Why I accepted the cottage . . . so I could go to the lake—thought I’d get through to Kitty somehow, make her leave me alone, but it’s worse here, the nightmares are worse, and Danny knows . . . Can’t remember . . . what I told him, but something . . . Jack says, live with it, but I’m a coward, Alice . . . I can’t be with you and not tell you but now I know you won’t want me . . . I love you but I keep seeing her face in my mind . . . always there, so this is . . . I love you so much, Alice . . . I love you . . . I love you . . . I love you . . .”

Nothing more. I turn off the tape. I shan’t give it to the police. That won’t bring anyone back, and besides, there’s Rosie
. . .
I can’t.

That’s my decision. I won’t go back on it.

I lean over, rewind the tape a very, very little, and press play. Then I turn onto my back and close my eyes.

LAURA WILSON is a former editor and author of children’s books. Her first three novels were critically acclaimed, and the first,
A Little Death,
was short-listed for both the CWA Historical Dagger and the Anthony Award for Best Paperback Original. She lives in London, England, with a basset hound, and is currently working on her fifth novel.

Also by Laura Wilson

A Little Death

Dying Voices

My Best Friend

TELLING LIES TO ALICE

A Delacorte Book / March 2004

Published by Bantam Dell

A Division of Random House, Inc.

New York, New York

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either
are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is
entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved

Copyright © 2004 by Laura Wilson

Visit our website at
www.bantamdell.com

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

Delacorte Press is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc.,
and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

Wilson, Laura

Telling lies to Alice / Laura Wilson.

p. cm.

e-ISBN 0-440-33481-0

1. Women—England—Fiction. 2. Truthfulness and falsehood—Fiction. 3. Oxfordshire (England)—Fiction. 4. Suicide victims—Fiction.
5. Country life—Fiction. 6. Memory—Fiction. I. Title.

PR6073.I4716T45 2004

823′.914—dc22

2003055432

v1.0

Telling Lies to Alice

Laura Wilson

OEB

Wils_0440334810

en